My Saint
by Karbonado
Summary: Throughout the years, remnants of the past often surface in an unusual (though typical) way. Ghosts of the past return and someone in particular will always see them and learn their history, one way or another.


The very first time the young colony had seen her picture was in a secret room, hidden away from the rest of the prying eyes of the world. The young toddler simply stared at the painting in awe at the sheer happiness and beauty of it and a French girl who had just barely entered the beginning stage of womanhood. In the portrait, the woman was surrounded by warm sunlight, nature and a heavenly sky that framed her as an angel on Earth. She wore a simple, pure white dress and held a bouquet of beautiful flowers losing their petals in the wafting breeze in an almost magical sense as it surrounded her. She held wildflowers, lilies and roses in her arms.

The woman was not necessarily beautiful in a conventional sense as she possessed scratches and fading scars on her fair skin, her hair was unusually short for women in general and there was this air of masculinity about her; she appeared almost as if she was trying to become a man. And yet, she seemingly embodied the strengths of both genders: the strength, protection and endless determination of a man and the loving, caring and kind-hearted purity of a woman.

Her hair was dirty blonde and wavy and cut very short in the back while the front fringes were just little past her chin. Her eyes were big and warm and loving; they were a stunning shade of blue that resembled the seemingly endless seas. A bright maternal smile on her face, filled with absolute happiness and love, untouchable and pure.

She almost appeared as a beautiful bride on her wedding day.

Truly, anyone who sees this would instantaneously fall in love with this woman for the love and happiness she was radiating from the picture.

The young child eventually discovered that the hidden painted portrait of the beautiful woman was just one of many culture works. The room that had stayed mostly hidden and kept secret from the rest of the world was a room dedicated to her. She was the main figure in all of the works of art that filled the space. Endless canvases of her face and smile on every single one; there was even a design for a bronze sculpture of her and plans to erect it in Paris indefinitely in the future.

Every single one of these was beautiful; he felt the love and devotion radiating from each piece.

There was one that remained true and strong beyond any before him, even the first portrait he had found. It was the woman standing fierce and brave in a slight angled shot. Her blue eyes shone with determination and hope towards the future as she stood firm in her place, wearing armor that fitted perfectly against her more curvaceous body and a shining sword in hand.

Without a shred of doubt in the young child's mind, what was shown before him was a warrior – fair and good, strong and passionate; a person who is more than willing to love and protect that means everything to her and fights for those who cannot fight for themselves. In this very image, she is the Holy Maiden of France and a warrior of the Heavens.

He loved this image partly because of lingering feeling of nostalgia from his mysterious, hidden and complex past, but mostly because what this picture represented: love. She appeared as a being of irreproachable life dominated by virtues of truth and faith.

And yet…there was a certain feel of melancholy stained with every work and image.

But…it was odd.

Why hideaway such a lovely portrait of a beautiful soul? It should be hanging high on the walls of portraits of the estate. The young colony also recognizes the quality of the painting. It was of European-Latin origin. The fine texture of paint was very realistic and yet surreal at the same time. The child wanted to say Italian, but it did not seem correct. He had witnessed the Italy Brothers' painting before and there were obvious discrepancies between their painting and this painting.

It looked like his father's work.

Why would he put away such a masterpiece of an artwork? It was almost indescribably beautiful.

Many questions formed in his mind, but only two stuck out the most.

Who was she and…why hide it all?

* * *

The young colony discovered her identity some time after he had found the hidden room. Though, he did not at first realize the connection until later on.

During times of hardship and the brutality of war, the young boy always heard his father whisper a name so sweetly and true with all of his being as he kneeled in front of the Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral, praying to the Trinity and the Heavens in a faithful manner; for honor and glory in the midst of battle.

France kneeled before the Cross, his hand clutching a lovely and expensive looking rosary, something only wealthy and powerful aristocrats and royalty would hold. While the body appeared wealthy and alluring, the crucifix of the rosary was made of worn dull metal that did not belong with rest. He clasped his hands together with the rosary in hand and began his prayer.

France whispered in absolute hope and devotion and beautiful French, "Pray for me, my beloved Joan of Arc. Please give me the strength and wisdom to oppose those who dare sully the glory and honor of the French. I pray that you are watching over me and guide me in my time of need. Lord, hear my prayers."

As hard as the young colony tried to ignore eavesdropping upon his father's prayers, that name he had uttered rung to him like a bell. That name sounded angelic and sweet.

Joan of Arc

Where had he heard that name before?

* * *

Always, since as far as he could remember, a few days prior to the beginning week of January, France would always seemingly become melancholy. Religious, France would leave on January 6th and refuses to return until the morning of next day.

Once he had asked his Uncle Spain about this.

All his uncle would reply and say was, "All I can tell you is Domrémy."

Domrémy?

What was significant about Domrémy? Was that just a small village in France? Why must his father go there annually?

* * *

During the absence of France on the 30th of May, Canada had spent some time snooping around his father's study once to find any information about his trips. In the large shelves of books, he had a hidden, worn-out journal that was covered in dust. It was as if it had not been gazed upon for so long. It was very obvious that the theme of the poems and writing was about a woman; and from what the young child understood it was about the same woman.

Inside was writing and poetry that at first was lovelorn, gradually changing to pure love and happiness then transforming into lovesickness. The entire journal was an unorthodox book – retelling events in chronological order.

The final entry was wrinkled and there was spots that made the ink run. Tears had been shed for this.

All it said was, " _Please forgive me. I have failed you._ "

 _Papa…what are you are hiding?_

* * *

The first time he had seen Joan of Arc was that faithful night. It was when France lost custody of Canada to his English father, England. It was a hard night for them both. France drank so heavily and began spitting out insults to both England and to Canada. While France was bitter and scornful about losing to his eternal rival, he kept yelling out that he didn't need Canada. All night, the poor frightened colony had to endure the painful and hurtful sounds of yelling and smashing of objects.

"I don't need Canada! He's just a few acres of snow! That needy useless brat eats up so much of my time and money! I'm glad he's gone!" another bottle smashed heard. "Why couldn't I have America? He's worth more than Canada would ever be!"

Canada buried himself in his soft blankets and quilts and tried to block out those terrible statements. It had frightened him so badly. Never in his entire time with his beloved, had his kind-hearted, loving papa been so terrifying and mean.

France continued to scream and yell violently because of England. In the midst of the angst and violence, France broke down and wept so bitterly. Why must England always come and take everyone he loved away from him? His cries broke his son's heart because of the raw emotion of pain and anguish and hurt.

Eventually, the deafening sound of silence filled the mansion.

He tried to sleep, but tears flooded his eyes. After everything that had happened today, he simply wants to forget. He was so tired. His papa as well.

Suddenly, a cool soft hand gently rubbed the boy's head. Canada opened his eyes and looked up to find a beautiful ghost standing before him. She looked exactly like that woman in the painting.

" _Please forgive Francis, little one._ " She whispered softly. " _He does not mean any of the horrid things he had said in his fit of drunken rage. He is just sad that he is losing someone so very important to him again. He is a good, loving man who has been through so much._ "

"…I know."

The ghost's eyes widened in surprise when the young colony responded back to her statements. " _You can hear me, child?_ "

"Yes." Canada replied. He smiled sweetly, his eyelids becoming heavy with fatigue. "I saw you in the painting. You're really, really pretty. Papa really likes you."

An expression of sadness and undying love formed on her face; she smiled sadly. " _I know._ " She gently strokes the boy's cheek with a loving maternal touch. " _He will never stop loving you, Matthew, just as I will never stop loving him._ "

She steps back and quietly dissipates from the room. Her last message echoed in the room.

" _Take care of him, Matthew._ "

Canada yawned. He nodded and mumbled that he will. "Goodbye…Joan of Arc…" he whispered before drifting to sleep.

* * *

Canada smiled wistfully out the window of his home in Ottawa. It was a beautiful sunset. He nostalgically remembered his time discovering slowly, bits and pieces about the woman in the painting.

Saint Joan of Arc – the Maid of Orléans; the heroine of France and one of England's greatest enemies – a being of irreproachable life possessed by virtues of truth and faith. Never in his wildest dreams would Canada believe to have met the real Joan of Arc or many other famous figures he had seen later in his life.

Since as a child growing under his beloved Papa's care, he had learned small things each time about her. When the young boy was forced to leave his Papa's custody to his English father's, he had discovered small records and relics of the warrior maiden as well. England told Canada once long ago what had happened.

He learned that his father England hated Joan of Arc. He hated her very existence, but he never hated her. Deep down he knew she was a noble girl who would sacrifice everything for her country and faith. But, he needed to be rid of her because she was in the way. She stood in his path to glorious victory of the English conquering the French (– and the one who would claim France's heart, though he left that part unsaid).

He found out about everything.

All of it was so cruel.

The cruelest act England had ever done to them both was merciless. Even Russia commented it was sadistically abominable.

England stripped France of everything that very day – his pride, his love and his dignity. He reduced him into a pathetic soul and did the unspeakable to him in front of the very woman he loved so purely and dearly and was forced to witness his heroine burn and cry in absolute agony before him.

He did it to crush France's spirit. England sadistically savored every moment of it.

After long reducing the body into ash, England cruelly 'dropped' the remains down the Seine to ensure no one, including France, could attempt recovering her or any surviving relics.

Canada understood why England did what he did back then. It was jealousy. Joan of Arc was everything he could and would never be. She captured the heart and attention of France.

France is the object of England's affections, despite denying it constantly. When he witnessed him and Joan together holding each other in their arms passionately, rage consumed him. Possessively, England wanted to be rid of her. France's body, heart and soul belonged to him and no one else, especially a mortal.

After a few years since Joan's execution, England refused to acknowledge his faults of his actions for his pride would not let him. He could never apologize for what he had done. He believes that France will never forgive him – there was no use asking for forgiveness on the unforgivable.

Oh, how wrong his father was.

France did forgive England for what he had done; he could see it in his eyes. What he couldn't forgive was himself. He had let the heroine of France be captured and die by the hands of the enemy. It plagued and followed him like a dark cloud. All he wanted is to apologize to the saint and beg forgiveness for unable to protect her in her time of need.

And yet, he does not know that she does not want to accept his apology for there was nothing to forgive. She knew the consequences of her actions if were caught and captured by the enemies, but she did no regardless.

Canada only knew because a few times in the past he had met Saint Joan again.

The first time as a child was when France relinquished control of Canada to England.

Once during the American Revolution when France supported America and helped him gain his independence.

Once both in World War One and Two.

The one time he had actually spoke her in a real conversation (not the one when he was a child) was some time after releasing France from Nazi rule. In the recovery room where each family member was there and sat, waiting for France to awake from his slumber. Canada saw Joan watching over his father. He greeted her and she greeted him and a small conversation started.

Before Joan left, Canada had to ask her one question:

"You regret any of it?"

Joan smiled softly. " _No; never._ "

* * *

 **Disclaimer: do NOT own**

My personal depiction of France's relationship with Joan is that they indeed loved each other greatly undeniably, but purely platonic. If they had more time together, their relationship would have been romantic and beautiful.

Personally, I see Saint Jeanne D'Arc as France's personal Guardian Angel, someone who will always guide and protect him in his time of need, no matter what.

Don't hate me; it's just my personal opinion.


End file.
